


Can You Hold Me

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: ABO [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: A/B/O, ABO, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Awkward Blow Jobs, Depression, Drinking, Dysfunctional Family, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Incest, M/M, Oral Sex, Referenced Homelessness, referenced miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 01:10:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12570324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Filbrick is an ass. Ma Pines is a power house. Stan keeps himself together and Ford falls apart.





	Can You Hold Me

**Author's Note:**

> This fucking series was supposed to be a smut drabble. 
> 
> So, warning for references to miscarriage and Filbrick's general dickery. Ma Pines also, maybe get's Ford tipsy, but, it's the 60s. I think.
> 
> Also, thanks to my beta who isn't even in this fandom. May you have an eagle's eye for typos.

Stan rides back with Ford, curled in the passenger seat, arms around his stomach and staring listlessly out of the window. They drive in silence. Stan barely acknowledges where they are until Ford reaches a hand to gently bring him back to reality.

                “Hey, Stan? We’re here.” Ford gentle grabs Stan’s shoulder. Stan blinks a few times and looks miserably at his brother.

                “Is he gonna be there?” Stan asks and his voice is horribly hoarse and rougher than Ford's ever heard it. Ford nods. “I don’t wanna see ‘im.”

                “I know.” And Ford does know. Stan has never gotten along with their father--the man was the one to throw Stan to the dogs after he had gotten pregnant. (After Ford had gotten him pregnant.) “But mom is in there, too. She said she'd take care of it. You trust her, right?”

               Stan snorts like he's almost amused.

                “Ma’s a pathological liar, Stanford.” He says dryly. Ford smiles tightly.

                “True, but I trust her.”

               Ford manages to get Stan out of the car, supporting his brothers weight—unsure if Stan is clumsy in pain or physically weighed down by his grief. The walk to the pawn shop is slow and Stan’s face is one of grim resignation. The door is unlocked and Ford can’t help the trepidation, but he straightens his back. For Stan, he can be strong.

               Of course, because the world seems to enjoy kicking Stan while he's down, their father is standing like an executioner, arms crossed and grimacing.

                “The hell do you think you're doing here.” He growls. Ford grips Stan tighter, tries to think of something to say that doesn't sound pitiful. “I told you to get lost.” Ford realizes that his father is looking at his brother. Stan glares back, a little fire returning in the form of a snarl.

                “Mom said--”

                “Your mother doesn’t pay the mortgage!” Their father takes a threatening step forward. Ford flinches, Stan glares, harder.

                “You take one more step.” Stan is trying to straighten but is leaning too hard to be intimidating.

                “And, what? What will you do? You couldn’t even get knocked up right and it’s the only thing people like you are good at.”

               The whole world freezes. Ford’s father is towering above them and Ford feels faint, like he’s about to throw up and Stan is shaking beside him. Ford tries to squeeze Stan tighter—tries to stop whatever horrible thing is happening inside his brother, but feels the losing battle as Stan start to pant, his chest spasming in huge, deep gulps of desperate air. Ford is terrified and does the only thing he can.

                “Mom!” He shouts, before his brother can lunge at his father—before either of them does more permanent damage. His mother appears like a fury.

                “Filbrick Pines, what have you done?” She hisses and Ford’s father takes a moment to stare Stan down before turning his gaze to his wife.

                “What are they doing here?” He asks, too reasonable. Stan is still shaking, panting. Ford rubs his back and tries not to hyperventilate.

                “I asked them to come back, you miserable goat. Now let my sons in.” She’s in his space, a slight but dangerous snake before a badger. The air is too tense and Ford doesn’t know how to breathe. 

                “Fine, but I don't want to see hide nor hair of you.” He grits out, glaring at Stan, again. Stan stands up just enough to smile grimly at their father.

                “Feeling’s mutual.” Stan says.

                “Ford, take your brother to bed, please.” Their mother says and Ford is more than happy to do so. He hears her hiss at their father and him grumble back. (“They’ve been through enough, Filbrick!”) They're in the hallway when Ford hears Stan chuckle, darkly. Ford looks at his brother, concerned that the stress of the day has somehow broken him. Stan just smirks, it’s ugly and a little cruel.

                “Hey, Ford, you wanna take me to bed?” He somehow manages to leer while looking exhausted and hurt. Ford blushes bright red and sputters, the whiplash from the tense atmosphere to this is too much. Stan chuckles again, more honestly.

               When they reach the bed Ford gently helps Stan get situated, tucked in with pillows fluffing him into a sitting position. Stan stares into the middle distance, lost in his own head, and Ford can't help but brush his knuckles down Stan’s cheek. Stan leans into the caress with a quiet hum.

                “Hey, Ford, we never paid for breakfast.” Stan says with a quirk of his lips and Ford gives a huff of affection and forces Stan to scoot over so he can cuddle next to him. It’s quiet and companionable, for a moment. “Ford, why's pops such a bastard?” Ford says nothing for a long moment.

                “He’s...he doesn't mean it.” Ford says and cards a hand through Stan’s hair. It's still filthy. Ford realizes, distantly, that he can get a real shower.

               Stan grumbles but leans into Ford anyway. There's a knock on the door and their mother pops her head in.

                “Hey, babies.” She comes in with a plate of sandwiches and a glass of water.

                “Hey, Ford, ya didn't tell me there was a beautiful woman comin’ over.” Stan says, trying for charming but too tired to sound anything but fond. Their mother rolls her eyes playfully.

                “Ford, watch your brother. He's clearly hitting the pills too hard.” She says, setting the plate on Stan’s lap. Ford just huffs and Stan shoots his best shit eating grin—which, right now, is pretty weak. “Now, Ford, sweetie, I love you, but you’re filthy. I'll stay with Stan while you shower.” She says. Ford blushes and stops to grab some fresh clothes--he is very gross. He feels a wave of gratification that their mother kept the clothes, that she still washed them. He waits until he's in the bathroom to bury his nose in the fabric and breathes. He luxuriates in the warm water, the clean smell of soap, of being home. He wants to cry in sheer relief, but he has done enough of that for now.

               He towels off, feeling clean and relaxed for the first time in weeks. He looks at himself in the mirror. He’s thin and his stubble is pronounced, accepting the thinning of his cheeks. He shaves, revels in the fact that he can shave. He dresses and how had he never noticed how wonderful clean clothes feel? He's still blissed from the amenities he has taken for granted when his father passes him in the hall. He doesn't stop, just scoffs in Ford's direction. Ford ignores him in favor of returning to Stan.

               His mother's still there, scolding Stan for getting crumbs all over the sheets and Stan just blames her for bringing him sandwiches. Ford smiles fondly and just takes in the scene. His mother sees him and smiles back.

                “Alright,” she turns to Stan and ruffles his greasy hair. “Your turn. Ya got enough grease in here to slick back your hair without any help.” Stan blushes and rubs the back of his neck with a smile.

                “Y’alright.” He says. His mother stands and takes the empty plate from the bed.

                “Meantime, Stanford, I'll get you some supper.” She gestures for Ford to follow her, letting Stan move slowly and sorely toward the bathroom.

               Ford tries not to hover around his brother, he knows Stan needs his space right now. So, he takes the empty glass of water and follows his mother to the kitchen. She pulls out bread and some egg salad, Ford thinks. She glares at him until he sits. When the plate lands in front of him, it makes a loud clatter and when Ford looks at his mother, her face is shrewd and dark.

                “Your brother, beautiful soul he is, takes too damn much after his father. You're going to tell me everything that happened, Stanford Filbrick Pines.” She hisses, angriest he's ever seen her and his heart starts galloping with his thoughts tangling: she knows she knows she knows. He's hyperventilating when he feels warm, soft hands cup his face. “Stanford, baby, I'm sorry, I'm not angry at ya. I'm not.” She soothes and Ford takes deep breaths, trying to still his spinning head.

                “You're not?” His voice is so small. He feels so small.

                “Course, not, baby. You didn't kick Stanley out. It’s not your fault.” She says and Ford chokes back a laugh, because, it is definitely Ford's fault. But she doesn't know. She never needs to know.

                “I-I didn't know what to do.” He finally stutters. “I-” Ford stops to take a deep breath and continues in a small voice: “I was scared.” He feels his mother's arm wrap around him, fingers in his hair. He isn't crying, he can't because he realizes with sudden clarity just how dangerous the situation had been. If Stan had been alone, pregnant or not, omega or not, he could have died. “He could have died.” He says, stunned and his mother shudders against him.

                “Don't think about it, baby. Don't borrow trouble.” But Ford knows that she feels it, too. That they could have come home without Stan. “I'm sorry, baby. I should let you eat. I need to check on the baby. You eat, okay? You’re too thin.” She pecks him on the forehead for good measure and Ford feels the wet kiss burn as he eats his sandwich mechanically. He tries to figure out what to tell his mother about what has happened in the weeks since Stan had been kicked out and Ford willingly followed. He doesn't want to tell her about sleeping in the Stan-o-War and the El Diablo. He doesn't want her to know about the hunger and fear and Stan sweet talking the cops out of giving them tickets for loitering. He wants the past weeks to disappear. But, Ford is a scientist, and there is no way to erase the past (yet).

               His mother returns, haggard and tired. She goes to the liquor cabinet and to Ford's surprise, pours two glasses of cheap whiskey. She shoots one, then fills it again. She walks over and sits heavily at the table. Ford takes a moment to really look at her. Her beehive is frizzing and skewed. Her lipstick is fading. She looks tired but determined. Ford thinks that Stan takes so much more after their mother. She pushes one of the glasses to Ford.

                “I figure you're gonna need that.” She glances at the glass and to Ford. He looks away, then up.

                “Shouldn't we check on--?”

                “Stanley’ll be fine. He's a strong boy. Besides,” she sighs, “he might need some time alone.” Ford nods, throat tight. He decides to brave the whiskey. He takes a tentative sip and immediately chokes as the alcohol burns his tongue and the vapor chokes his nose and throat. He gags and stares at his mother, who is grinning, just a bit.

                “Why do you drink this?” He asks, horrified. She chuckles.

                “Baby, you drink this because of days like today. Now, take a big gulp. The little sips make it worse.” She guides him through it and he nearly gags, but he feels the whiskey burn like acid reflux down to his stomach. He doesn't see the appeal until his stomach begins to warm all the way to his chest and then his face. “Now, Stanford.” Ford's head is light and fuzzy. “Tell me everything.”

So, he does. He leaves out the part about him and Stan and the heat--even he's not that drunk. But he tells her about trying to sleep next to Stan in the El Diablo. About fighting over who got to eat more. He tells her about the fear and the cops and, eventually, when the whiskey has diffused to his fingertips and toes, he tells her about the people who watched Stan--the hungry eyes. He talks about the “freeloader” and just how strong and brave Stan was and how scared and weak Ford was. His mother listens to all of it and says nothing. Ford tapers off, staring at his glass. She stands and silently grabs the bottle of whiskey and pours herself another glass. She looks at Ford and then to his glass. Ford nods. She fills his glass. She sits and takes a deep breath.

               “I’m glad you’re home, Ford.” She says softly. She reaches across the table and Ford lets her grab his hands. She rubs the knuckles and squeezes. “My poor, brave boys.” She whispers and Ford feels so young and afraid.

               “Mom,” he starts, hesitant. His mother hums. “Why is dad so hard on Stan?” His mother doesn’t stop stroking his hands.

               “I don’t know, baby. Your father is a complicated man.” She releases Ford’s hands to drain her glass and pour another. Ford thinks that that is an excellent idea. It still hurts and burns but the day's harrowing events are starting to blur like Vaseline on a film lens. The memories are softer and easier to swallow.

               “Does he love us?” Ford feels a little heavy and warm and soft. His mother gently takes the glass from him.

               “Of course he does, honey. He’s just...from a different time.” She pats his hand again before standing and taking Ford’s glass to clean at the sink. Hers remains and Ford understands that she is not done drinking. They both hear the shower cut off, though neither of them heard it start. “You should head up and help your brother to bed. I’ll clean up here.” Ford nods and stands, feeling the blood rush to his feet. He manages to stumble to his mother and kiss her cheek. She looks at him, bewildered and pleased.

               “I love you, ma.” He murmurs, his Jersey drawl pouring through the boozy haze he knows he shouldn’t have. His mother had, what? Six drinks? He carefully turns and focuses on taking the stairs slowly. He reaches his room with little issue and enters, slowly closing the door behind him. It clicks loudly in the room.

               Ford can hear Stan rustling around and turns, slowly, controlled. Stan is standing near their bunkbeds. His hair is wet and disheveled and dripping. His skin is pink and damp--rosy and healthier than it has been in weeks. Stan has also shaved, though the wash has done little for his ever-present acne. Standing in the dark room with only a loose pair of striped pajama pants, Stan seems somewhat melancholy and wonderfully, enticingly domestic. Stan sees him and smiles tightly.

               “Oh, hey, Ford. Wondered where you’d gone off to--” Ford walks carefully toward Stan--his Stan until he is just a foot away--too close to see properly without his eyes crossing. He’s breathing heavily and Stan wrinkles his nose. “Poindexter, have you been drinking?” Stan asks, scandalized. Ford colors.

               “N-no.” He lies and he can taste whiskey on each breath and knows Stan can smell it.

               “You’re shit at lying, Ford.” Stan says, no heat and the crinkle of a smile at his eyes. “Come on, nerd, let’s go to bed.” He gently pulls Ford to the bunkbeds and Ford feels his face spasm because Stan has lost so much and he still takes care of him even though that’s Ford’s job. So, Ford leans quickly into Stan’s space and wraps booze warmed arms around his neck and just breathes as he holds Stan.

               “I’m so sorry, Stan.” He mumbles into Stan’s chest. Stan slowly raises his hands to rest on his brother’s back. Ford isn’t crying--he’s too tired to cry--but his voice is low and breathy. “You’re such a strong person and--and I wish I coulda done more.” He’s beginning to slur and he tries to calculate his blood alcohol volume, it is surely not so high, but Stan is so soft and warm and--Ford is wet. Ford feels wetness dripping into his hair and on his back and--oh no. Ford looks up and Stan looks so heartbroken and he’s crying and Ford can’t stand it. He won’t survive his heart to be broken again, today. “No, Stan, please, don’t cry. Please” He pulls himself closer and feels Stan shake his head against his shoulder. Something heady and possessive lights up in Ford’s addled brain and he carefully but forcefully pushes Stan back into the bed, maneuvers them so that Stan is on his back and Ford is nestled between his legs. Ford begins to kiss Stan on his tear stained cheeks. He gently swipes tears away with his thumbs. He feels Stan’s arms wrap tightly around his waist and back--feels blunt fingers dig into his skin. “I’m gonna take care of you.” He mumbles into Stan’s cheek, nuzzling the soft and wet skin. Stan makes a low, sharp sound beneath him.

               “Please, Ford, fuck me.” Stan’s voice is low and wet. Ford shudders and pulls back enough to look Stan in the eyes.

               “I can’t.” He says, fingers still stroking Stan’s face. Stan makes a miserable sound and screws his eyes shut.

               “Please, Ford.” He’s pulling--almost clawing Ford’s back, trying to force Ford into his space. Ford resists, barely.

               “Stan,” he says as gentle as he can. “Stan, you’ve been through a traumatic experience. I can’t...I can’t risk further injury.” Ford is surprised at the sobriety of his words. Stan just makes another wounded noise and shakes his head. Ford bites his bottom lip because his cock is stirring and he feels how hard Stan is already and he wants--oh, he wants. He wants Stan full and round and everything he had this morning. Ford pushes that sad thought down and down to a place he can dissect it later (never).

               “Please, Sixer, please. Just make me forget.” Stan is begging and Ford is too drunk and too tired and too sad for this. But, he gets an idea.

               “I--I have an idea.” Ford says as he removes a hand from Stan’s face and begins to trail it down his body--the soft pectorals, the softer stomach. The hair there is coarse and wiry--it serves to insulate areas of the body that lose the most heat. Ford idly scratches into Stan’s happy trail, content to just feel the warmth his brother always radiates. He begins to move down his brother’s body, letting his nose nuzzle beside his hand. Stan squirms under him, breath hitching.

               “I’m, ah, getting mixed signals here, Sixer.” Stan says, eyes still glassy but gazing down at Ford in affectionate bewilderment. Ford feels something burn in him and lightly digs his teeth into Stan’s stomach. The flesh jumps in surprise and Stan’s whole body follows suit. Ford rests his teeth there, wanting to do so much more but stopping himself. Almost.

               “Mine.” He mumbles around the hair and soft skin. He feels Stan huff--head lifting and falling with Stan’s stomach.

               “Yeah, alright, Sixer.” Stan says and places a hand on Ford’s head, just gently petting. Ford let’s go and smiles into Stan. He feels just a little giddy and nervous. He reaches up to grab Stan’s wrist. Stan stills, his hand going lax. Ford pulls instantly and Stan reaches in to cradle his skull. Ford pulls harder and Stan grabs his hair. Ford looks up and Stan is, again, confused but curious. Ford smiles, a little shy, a little mischievous. He keeps hold on Stan’s wrist and moves down until he can rest his head on Stan’s hip where it meets his leg. He stays there a moment, feeling the muscle jump, just slightly and watching his brother’s dick darken the pajamas with precum. Ford relaxes too much, drifting, when he feels the hand in his hair twitch and pull. “Uh, Sixer, you okay?” Ford jolts back to reality and gives his indulgent brother a sleepy smile before leaning forward and kissing the wet spot he’d been admiring. To Ford’s great pleasure, Stan sucks in a sharp breath and curses quietly. Ford hums, lips still resting on the tacky fabric. Stan’s hand spasms and pulls his hair. Ford is suddenly very awake.

               “Stanley.” He starts, admiring his own candid and calm voice. He feels his brother’s cock twitch, just a little. “I think I would like to suck you off.” He says and Stan’s whole body jolts, upsetting Ford a bit but just making him chuckle.

               “Fuck, Sixer, you can’t--can’t just say shit like that.” But Stan’s hand is pulling Ford down and Ford laughs again, reaching to pull his brother’s pants down. It’s disconcerting to be eye level with Stan’s dick when it pops free, leaking and swollen. Ford doesn’t really know what to do--hasn’t done the research he’d like to--but he’s pleasantly buzzed and feels loose, so he kisses the base of his brother’s cock where the hair is thick and tickles his nose. He feels Stan gasp, feels the hand tighten in his hair. He smiles into the pubes, inhales—and promptly sneezes. Ford is distantly horrified when he hears Stan muffle his cackling.

“Fuck, Sixer, you sneeze like a kitten!” Ford scowls, looking at Stan’s laughing face and stubbornly licks Stan from base to tip. It’s sloppy and messy but Stan makes a noise like he’s deflating the world’s deepest balloon. Ford loves it. He does it again, starting just above Stan’s balls and moving slowly up. He ignores the bit of snot on his upper lip.

               Ford can admit, in the part of his mind not screaming in lust and love, that this is not the most delightful thing he’s ever licked. It’s musky and salty, but clean (thank, Moses). When Ford reaches the tip he carefully wraps a hand around the base to steady it and gently tongues at the precum gathering in the slit--oddly grateful that there is no foreskin to pull away. He is rewarded when Stan’s body spasms but isn’t ready for the minute thrust that bumps Stan’s dick into his nose and knocks his glasses askew.

               “Shit, Sixer, I’m sorry.” He hears and Stan moves to take his hand from Ford’s hair, but Ford grabs his wrist again and removes his glasses, letting them drop to the floor.

               “I like your hands.” Ford says before licking at Stan again. He hears Stan swear and hears the whump of a head hitting pillows. Ford just hums, smiling, and begins to gently stroke his brother while mouthing his dick. Eventually, his other hand joins in to massage Stan’s balls, as well, marveling in the coarse hair he encounters. Stan is shuddering beneath him, fist in his mouth to smother his noises. Ford regrets that but knows that they must be quiet. He opens his mouth and breathes hotly on Stan’s damp tip and can feel the suppressed moan that makes Stan’s whole body vibrate. The hand on Stan’s balls moves lower, testing Stan’s perineum and seeking to know if Stan is wet or not. Stan keens. Stan is not wet.

               Ford is not disappointed. He wouldn’t have fucked Stan anyway. Just another thing to file away about his brother.

               Ford becomes bolder and wraps his lips around the head of Stan’s cock. The hand in his hair is tight and almost hurts, but between alcohol and adrenaline Ford doesn’t feel much but euphoria. Stan hisses when Ford’s teeth scrape his skin. Ford apologizes by licking and sucking until Stan is prematurely cumming into Ford’s mouth. Ford jerks back, surprised and almost disgusted, only managing to get the rest of Stan’s load on his face. He blinks, owlishly at the sticky, warmth on his face when he hears Stan muffling laughter above him. He glares up, unable to see Stan’s face clearly.

               “I’m--I’m sorry, ya just. Ya looked like a--a startled owl.” Stan manages between amused gasps. Ford, himself, humps and, in a stroke of shamelessness, hauls himself up and into Stan’s face.

               “Fix it.” He says, voice husky but firm. Stan stills, shudders, then pulls Ford’s face gently forward until his broad, wet tongue licks every inch of Ford clean. Ford giggles because this situation is ridiculous and Stan’s tongue tickles, but Stan plays dirty and begins to nibble as well. Ford shudders, hip twitching forward against Stan’s thighs. Stan pulls back, lips wet.

               “Shit, Sixer, forgot about you.” Stan mumbles and reaches a hand down and into Ford’s pants. Ford gasps and his hips jut forward. Stan huffs a laugh against his neck. “Oh, Sixer. The things you do to me.” Stan is stroking him a little rougher than necessary--there is no lubricant besides Ford’s own precum. “One day, Ford,” Stan twists his wrist and then thumbs the head. “I’m gonna fuck you open with my own slick.” He nips Ford’s neck where it joins his shoulders and Ford cums with that image--of Stan fingering himself open and then doing the same to Ford. He shudders and slumps against his brother. Stan strokes his hair, his neck, his back. Ford mouths at the shoulder beneath him. There wasn't enough pressure around his dick to make his knot swell and he feels a little disappointed until the booze and the endorphins make him loose.

               “Love you, Stan.” He mumbles, drifting off, loved and safely wrapped around his brother. Stan huffs beneath him, but holds him all the same.

               “Ditto, nerd. But, uh, I just got a shower, so.” Stan wiggles. Ford hums and snuggles deeper into Stan’s soft chest. Stan huffs but manages to wipe his hand clean on the sheets. Ford listens to Stan’s heartbeat—a little fast as he comes down from orgasm. Ford sighs and grazes his teeth against Stan’s chest.

               “Mine.” He mumbles, sleepy and satiated. Stan begins to gently pet his hair.

               “Always, Sixer.” 

              Sometime during the night, Stan opens a window to air out the room and Ford finds new blankets wrapped around the both of them. In the morning, his mother chides them for leaving the window open, especially with Stan the way he is. Stan laughs and Ford is properly chastised, but, it's all worth it to get Stan his family, again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, I just wanted Ma Pines to chew out Filbrick. This was supposed to be much heavier on the depressed Stan, but Stan decided to have a fucking sense of humor or some shit and now NOTHING IS RESOLVED, THANKS FOR BEING IN CHARACTER, STANLEY.
> 
> Title's from "Can You Hold Me" by NF feat. Britt Nicole. Because I was listening to it while editing this, so, there.
> 
> Edit: Changed the ending juuuuust a bit. Like, added a sentence.


End file.
